Knight to Queen
by Hermonthis
Summary: MC/DA - But Talons only last for so long. Traitors for even less. A question whether love can exist in times of war.


A/N: A deviation from a longer one-shot involving Master Cyclonis and the Dark Ace.

**Knight to Queen**

* * *

He likes the way she is a silent thinker, a stoic chess player with no tells whatsoever. He is confident she would play brilliantly in a game of poker, and for a moment he is reminded of smoky cigarette afternoons in the company of his master's assassinated father. The memory of an unexpected but welcome comrade. A mentor. He admires the way she is reserved and cool, and the solitary fire that burns in his black knight's heart can be found in her glittering, violet eyes. The daughter inherits the eyes of her mother.

She enjoys his displays of indirect affection. The bishops and the pawns he leaves in front of her door. Any other man would fashion his insignia on the sculpted wood or carve her initials on the green velvet underside. His gifts leave no mark, no residue to be ashamed of. There is no softness in his presents for they are always overbearingly practical, but the supple leather of his trademark gloves provides all the gentleness he needs. To her, he is much more than a substitute figure for her father.

They bask in each other's company under a single lamp in the corner of his room. Never hers. Over the years his choice of décor fluctuates from the Spartan to the painfully overcrowded depending on his overall mood for that particular year. Her eyes regardless of age always manage to find their way to his bed – and the dresser with the secret cabinet next to it; for all solid men keep a journal, and she wants to know what he writes in his.

"You're looking again," he chides softly and pushes his rook forward. The castle is within swallowing distance of her patient yet ravenous queen. The young woman blinks to clear the grit trapped in her left eye and mentally reprimands her companion for forgetting to dust the area before her arrival. Her sinuses are acting up.

She does not need to tell him he made a reckless move. She is convinced he does it just to amuse her and he knows. He watches for the twinkle in her eyes that lets him know that she knows.

It is times like these, alone with nothing but a Solaris Crystal above her heads, she will get an aching twist inside her chest. As if she is born with a sliver of a blade trapped in the space just underneath her breasts; a sore ribcage that only heightens in pain when he reaches across the table to capture her pawn. God knows how many times she contrives one day he will reach over and take her hand into his own. But that is a sentimental move - and an overt gesture, and for propriety's sake she must be satisfied. He avoids unnecessary contact and replaces it with ghostly whispers of what might be.

"Your move, Master." Feeling nonchalant, he lifts an ungloved hand and taps the luminescent glass with a fingernail. It swings to and fro. Beneath the hanging lamp Cyclonis looks older than she truly is, and the rocking shadows that caress the Dark Ace's face mimic the illusion. Flecks of dust drift down from the light and filter her perfect view.

Her champion is not getting any younger, they both know that. But where he is unafraid of growing older she fails. She is young enough to understand the difference between teenage idealism and adult cynicism, but not enough to accept the inevitable stretch of years that spans before her. Win or lose. Terras conquered in rapid succession garner the attention of the Council and easily revert back to their original form of government. Barter when available. Use your commanders. Be impenetrable.

But Talons only last for so long. Traitors for even less.

In that manner of thought, he has the opportunity to ridicule her in terms of experience when they play this chess game. It matters little to him whether she wins and he loses; it is the length of time they spend and the company that is significant. The duration of her game does not extend as long as his, and he is kept by a vow, a dead lord's promise regarding his only daughter. Were it not for the latter, he would take her to bed. Only a fool would mistake the slender heiress for a child, and a fool he was not.

As if knowing her mind, the Dark Ace smiles when Cyclonis takes the other half of his cream-coloured knights. Purple fingernails dig into the horse's blank eyes and she lines them up side-by-side on her end of the table. He cannot succeed on this wooden board and he is constantly failing on the battle field. In time he will be captured by the Sky Knights while the Council turns their gaze towards their home and lay siege to it. He would perish before betraying her. The fact makes her proud, but the equivalent loss is like a wedge of lemon squeezed over an open cut. A soldier's life sacrificed for her own.

"I'm getting too old for this game. I'll never win against you."

The barbed wire around her trenched heart turns inwards. The metal thorns piece the flesh of her soul and bleed a deep, dark red. Further contact, despite years of want, can only agitate the wound. And it hurts them both - because villains have feelings too.


End file.
